


my head tells me no (but my heart (or something else) says go)

by inlightofvisa



Series: The McCall-Hale Diaries [28]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Also Stiles flirts shamelessly without knowing it, Derek has Expert Control, Everybody wants the D, Flirting shamelessly without knowing it is the D, Gen, Pre-Slash, The skill everyone wants, You might even say he is a Master
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 21:34:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlightofvisa/pseuds/inlightofvisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek is an expert of self-control. A master, even. He has fifty different ways to shut down pretty girls at bars and the muscled twinks that grind on him at the club. But for some reason, he has zero ways to effectively stop the force of nature that is Stiles, and his oblivious flirtation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my head tells me no (but my heart (or something else) says go)

**Author's Note:**

> http://indecentdrawer.tumblr.com/post/32058015778/stiles-put-your-shirt-on
> 
> Oh my lord this is so late. ENJOY PLS ENJOY

Never ever let it be said that Derek had self-control. Excellent self-control, in fact. Honed over the many years after Kate had left him high and dry with nothing, save a broken heart, the clothes on his back, and a couple condoms. And some cash to get him home.

“Thanks for the ride, babe,” she had said, voice poisonously sticky as she leapt into her Kia Soul. Derek had just stared after her. In retrospect, it didn’t make sense that Kate drove a Soul. To put it bluntly, she didn’t have one. She sold it to the devil. Or something.

So yeah. Derek has trained himself to not react to people. To not react to the girls at his arms at the bars, to not react to the boys that grind on him when he goes out and hits the floors of the gay clubs. But then, all the people that hit on him are, to say, similar to him. They swagger, confident, touch him all over, and whisper with bravado, words kissing his face like butterflies. But he just stares stonily ahead, coldly brushing them all off, because he doesn’t need any of them. Doesn’t want any of them. They’ll all leave him in the middle of nowhere with just a t-shirt and boxers.

“Not everyone’s like Kate,” Laura had said consolingly one afternoon after getting back from school for break. “Not everyone’s a cruel-hearted bitch who loves to play awful party games with your feelings.”

Derek had snorted.

“But how do you know?” he had asked, laughing bitterly and eyeing his sister with the same bland stare he used on barflies and ass-grinders. “You’re never gonna know until you’re in too deep.”

Laura had just given him a hug, a kiss on the cheek, and tousled his hair.

“Bear, I love you, okay? Just… I just don’t want to see you hurt yourself.”

And that had been that conversation.

So yeah. Derek had the self-control of basically the freaking Buddha. Nothing would sway him. Ever. Of course, that was all in the realm of feelings and relationships. When it came to his stomach, Derek was about as subject to the tides of hunger as any other mortal. Scott was probably the closest analogy, because both of them were bottomless pits. Laura shared the same appetite (but in careful restraint, Laura’s own words), which Melissa told them must have come from their dad.

“I swear,” she had told them over the scraps of turkey on the plate on Thanksgiving _evening_ , “I eat a normal-sized person portion. Your father eats like he’s eating for two, and like it’s been _years_ since he and his imaginary second person has seen food.”

Laura had looked up guiltily from her fifth plate of food, while Scott had continued to shove turkey and mashed potatoes in his mouth.

So other than food and essentials, Derek was a self-control master. The guru of discipline. And he's certain that nobody will ever shake his steadfastness and his stubbornness to never  _ever_ let anyone outside of family (aside from his father) affect him  _again._ Of course, though, even the strongest boulders yield to the whispers of the wind and the insistent licking of the ocean. 

* * *

Derek raps his knuckles on Scott’s door, barging in when there’s no answer.

“Scott, tell Mom that we’re out of cerealllllllllllllll.”

Stiles stares back at Derek before covering his chest with his t-shirt. He lets out what sounds like a dog and a chicken attempting to sing a duet, hopping up and down on his left foot clad only in his jeans and boxers.

“Can you, like, not?” Stiles says before toppling over. He lands on the floor with an "oof". “I don’t want to have to report you to my father for being a creepy pervert sneaking around looking at underaged boys.”

Derek’s eyebrows furrow.

“I’m not—this is my—what,” he stutters, still hiding behind the door. “Where’s Scott.”

“I’m serious!” Stiles says from where he’s still sprawled on the carpet, attempting to worm his way into his shirt while remaining on the floor. He looks like one of those [inflatable waving men](http://www.flickr.com/groups/93073157@N00/pool/) that car dealers use to steal attention from drivers passing by. So that they can crash and then go purchase new cars from said dealers. They’re sick bastards. “I will call my father on you, my best friend’s sweet, sweet brother.”

“Shut up,” Derek says, leveling him with the patented Derek McCall-Hale Blank Stare Number Twenty-Seven, guaranteed to slice all bullshit to nice, neat ribbons.

“Fine,” Stiles whines from somewhere in his t-shirt. “You’re no fun.”

“Where’s Scott,” Derek repeats, drumming his fingers on the doorjamb. “It’s important.”

Stiles attempts to do a bridge before flopping back onto the floor ungracefully. Like a baby deer. Or giraffe.

“Yeah, cereal is soooooooooooo important,” Stiles drawls, flipping over and pushing himself up off the ground. Derek turns on Twenty-Seven again, and Stiles falls before his prowess once more. “God, are you like, _made_ of boring? He’s in the bathroom! Something about seeing me shirtless too much after practice. I don’t understand. I mean, who wouldn’t want a piece of this?”

“Party of one,” Derek snipes, rolling his eyes and raising his hand.

“Oh puhhhhleeeeeezzzz,” Stiles says, adding about fifty z’s. “I’m irresistible. A nice, gangly, delightful smorgasbord of endearing klutziness. I’m freaking _adorable_. Stop lying to yourself, you want this.” He sweeps one of his hands across his chest and hikes his t-shirt up. “I’ll even throw you in a sample for free.”

“Stiles, I am not encouraging you training to be a prostitute in my _own house_ ,” Derek huffs, twisting the knob of the door. “Look, tell Scott to tell Mom that we’re out of cereal, and we need to get more.”

“You totally want to tap this!” Stiles yells in response as Derek closes the door. “You know you do!”

The door closes with a snap and Derek looks down the hallway, standing alone in the hallway for a moment before he realizes that he’s smiling.

“Ohmygod,” he says, words jumbling to get out of his mouth as he runs to the safe haven that is his room. Scott comes out of the bathroom as Derek zooms by.

“What in the _world_ ,” Scott says flatly, toweling his hair off. Derek leans against his closed door, because that’s going to solve all his problems involving self-control and how his training, his Hard Work came crumbling down because Stiles is another flavor of brazen and confident, and because it’s Stiles. But then also, it’s _Stiles_.

“Ohmylord,” Derek breathes out against his door.

“What are you even doing?” Scott asks, watching amusedly from the lit door of the bathroom.

“Not being a pervert,” Derek moans, banging his head against his door. “I am _not_ being a pervert.”

Scott runs his towel through his hair one last time before shaking out the tiny beads of water in his hair.

“Sure, bro,” he says, clapping Derek on the shoulder as he walks by. “Whate _ver_ you say.”


End file.
